


Thick Skin

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Body Image, Body Positivity, Body Shaming, Brotherly Love, Determination, Family Feels, Fat Shaming, Mocking, Poverty, Protectiveness, Romance, Size Difference, Social Issues, Tenderness, Xenophobia, everyone deserves love, fatphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: It's common for Dwarves to be mocked for their size. Over time Bombur comes to notice, however, that his height is rarely ever the first target.
Relationships: Bifur & Bofur & Bombur (Tolkien), Bombur/Bombur's Wife
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Thick Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Me:  
> My love for Broadbeams, sliding in from 2015: I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me

Bombur knew better than to put much stock in the words of Menfolk or their opinions of Dwarves. Though he and his family spent an exorbitant amount of time among them, it wasn’t by choice. Bifur always warned them: no matter how many years they stayed in this town, the Men would always see them as outcasts—wild creatures that crawled out of the mountains, hungry and in need.

Wild creatures? Hardly. Hungry and disadvantaged? Absolutely. When he was little, Bombur learned to take what he could get. Bread and butter to last through the week’s end were to be considered a bounty, even if his stomach roiled and whined long into the night for more.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Bofur would tear his share of the loaf in half, wrangling a smile onto his face as he called out, “Bombur, catch!” Bombur obeyed without a second thought, pleased to see his brother’s eyes light up as he gulped the bread down. “Aye, that’s a good lad! I knew you had it in you!”

It became a common game, Bombur all the while believing that his brother was just trying to create a bit of fun. When Bofur’s cheeks started sharpening and his clothes dangling loose, however, he began to understand a little better.

Leaning an ear against his bedroom door, long after he should have been sleeping, he heard Bifur fretting. “Your heart is in the right place, _irak’nadad_ , but he’s not of age. He cannot work yet, and if _your_ strength fails because of your sacrifices for him…”

“I can still earn my keep an’ it’s mine to do what I want with it,” Bofur protested. “I choose to share it with him! Y’fear too much. I’m well an’ fine as it is.”

Should Bombur be ashamed for playing their game? Should he feel guilt for accepting what Bofur freely gave to help him?

The Menfolk seemed to think so.

During their trip to the marketplace, he pawed at the edge of Bifur’s tunic, pointing out the most enticing harbors. “Look! Oh, look there, Bifur, see? It smells so good! May we have some?”

The lines of stress around Bifur’s face were softer today. His bonus this week might be just enough. “Go on, then. Buy a sticky bun to share with your brother,” he relented fondly, pressing a few coins into his cousin’s hand.

Bombur’s elation at this request lent him speed, leaving him breathless and pink as he came to a stop in front of the stall. “One, please, pardon! The _biggest_ one there!” Bofur would be so surprised, he realized, bouncing eagerly on his toes. He wasn’t feeling well today but this would be just the thing to lift his spirits. They would—

“My, my! Only the biggest for you?” the vendor chuckled. “I daresay you’ve been treated to quite a few sticky buns already! Haven’t you, little fellow?”

“Begging your pardon but I haven’t,” he stammered, brows furrowing. “The big one, please.”

“Well, if you insist!”

He did insist, yes; he needed to if he and Bofur would have enough to share.

The Man laughed once more, shaking his head as if sorry to give the bun up. Bombur accepted it tentatively, shuffling as he became aware for the first time how the vendor looked down on him. But what did he know? He couldn’t let some Man’s strangeness rob him of this rare joy. The bun smelled delectable and he and Bofur would savor every bite.

Of course that would never be the end of it.

It was grievously common for Dwarves to be mocked for their size. Mannish children seemed to sprout like weeds, overshooting the Dwarves’ heads practically overnight. Bombur didn’t care much for their jeering; like Bofur, he held to the belief that if their cousin could reach a proud 4’ 5”, there were good odds for them.

No, it wasn’t his height that bothered him these days. The _other_ barbs were the truly poisonous ones.

“His kin play the part of sorry, starving beggars yet look at this one stuffing his face!”

“Not another penny for their lean meats. Well, you can see where the gold goes.”

“Those rags barely suit him. Speak of getting too big for britches…”

“Pity the tailor!”

“Disgusting. Look at his plate!”

“Those benches are meant to hold the lot of us! Can’t he find his own?”

“Why, it makes me ill.”

How did Bombur act in return? He lingered quietly, kept his head down and waited for them to be bored of him for the day. Needy, hungry Dwarves dare not mutter a word of complaint against their _generous_ , _genteel_ Mannish neighbors.

Staying quiet and unassuming under the world’s gaze did nothing to steer them away. He could hardly go unnoticed; they and their judgements seemed determined to seek him out regardless. He was an _intrusion_ , a sore on polite society, never mind what he had to offer them. His heart was buried away under thick, rough, flabby Dwarvish folds, and that meant it surely didn’t exist, much less matter.

Never mind his patience, his loyalty, his compassion. Never mind his passions or dreams. To see him dance at a festival? Horrifying! Perish the thought! To see him carry twice the load of Mannish workers? Well, as only he should. Perhaps the extra work would help him shed his ugly skin. It was right and just that he earned half as much for his labors.

Every day he returned from work sweaty, filthy and spent, soldiering on past the sneers that he looked and smelled like some vulgar ginger pig. He breathed and bore it. He cleaned his face and then cleaned his plate, because good toil should never be for naught.

“Oi! Save a morsel or two for us, y’lug!” Bofur might tease as he and Bifur arrived, but by now Bombur had a keen sense of the way others looked at him, and there was never an ounce of malice in his kin. Bofur’s eyes said of him, “ _Pride and joy. Relief. Cared for_.”

Their game of “Bombur, catch!” never truly ended. If Bofur had his way, he would never let it. No matter the measures, he would ensure some scrap would be provided for his brother—and his brother would always catch it, because this household knew better than to let food fall to waste.

Bifur’s eyes were wilder now after his injury. His gaze said, “ _Protected. Defended. Held dear and fierce. No restraint_.” The same folk who learned quickly not to point or gawk at the axe in his head learned soon not to speak ill of Bombur in his mad cousin’s presence. When threatened, Bifur demonstrated that there were far more grisly things Dwarves could do with silverware than grow fat by them.

Some seemed to think that Bifur and Bofur did these things out of obligation. Dwarves put such stock in family, but naturally no one “like him” could be worthy of affection beyond the boundaries of blood.

Daloa knew better, as Dwarrowdams often did. Her eyes, shining silver like river stones, spoke such volumes. It stole his breath away to see such beauty in her, and more so to know that she saw an equal measure in him. They danced hours away at their wedding and thought not of the world lurking and leering outside. Their share of this earth, a place carved out for love and kindness, was enough.

“ _Amrâlimê_ ,” he murmured.

“ _Hôfuk kurûdaz_ ,” she breathed, pliant and giving under his large hands. “ _Mudùmel_ …My solace, my home.”

He could be scorned, derided, thought of as a lesser being—and he could be this for her still. He could be loved and give love without conditions. He deserved as much. He deserved that dignity.

 _I am not a shame, nor a burden. I am not despicable. I am not lesser_.

 _Mahal forged me by design; his crafting doesn’t err. My job is to tend myself and my dear ones just as well as I can—and that’s by_ my _wisdom, not this world’s. For my quality I answer to no one but the Maker in the end, and he loves me beyond all fear and doubt_.

 _I am never unloved_.

**Author's Note:**

> Irak’nadad: Cousin  
> Amrâlimê: My love  
> Hôfuk kurûdaz: Joy of hearts  
> Mudùmel: Comfort of all comforts


End file.
